


Woegothica

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Multi, Tentacles, Xeno, eldritch porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is risen.</p><p>For <a href="">HSWC</a> Bonus Round #1 prompt: <cite>"Who knows the end? What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men."</cite> (H.P Lovecraft, "The Call of Cthulhu")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woegothica

She is risen.

And she hungers.

They should have known this was coming. She was their toy, a favoured pet, cute and charming in her fumbling attempts to destroy and consume.

Perhaps they did know. After all, their present moment is eternity. It spans the universe, gathers up everything that was alongside what might just be and what never could be. 

Her grief is incomprehensible to them. What is this loss? They know all, so they can't know nothing. They only flourish and digest, sprawl and surround. They persist and survive. They can never die.

She is as dark as their cosmic sea, every bit as frigid. Her empty eyesockets spill starlight, her scream shreds solar winds.

They are everything, multiplied: compound eyes, countless twitching, reaching, squeezing tentacles (smooth, scaled, armored, slick) further tipped with cilia, fractal repetitions that branch and break onward, doubled mouths and clashing beaks, distributed brains and frightful sensoria. 

Before them, risen, she is the true monster.

They are a multiplicity. She is a fragment, a single human child pierced by grief, broken by despair, inconsolable and just so hungry. They writhe around her, curious and uneasy, and what is majesty but nescience well-marbled by fear?

We worship what we cannot grasp. We circle a central point, we beg for attention. They, miscarriages and monsters, amalgams of fear and terror, are no different.

Her body is the mirror of her grief, riddled with death, enormous now, half-flayed and flapping against the cosmic silence. She rages, hungers, commands. They stroke her, sing to her, pluck at her reticular formation, croon and caress. They would lull her, but her hunger only grows.

They reach for her, twining around her legs and arms, pulling her open, spreading her further. What is she, that they cannot command? She trembles in their hold, demanding more, dislocating and unjointing herself for greater access. She has nothing to hide; the whole eternity should know her power. Flagella nudge at her crotch, tickle and tease, then plunge their way in, sound her deep, three times over.

They feed her more, push down her gullet, up her nostrils, through her ears and then each dirty pore, to coil in her gut and distend what's left of her. They welcome their fellows, copulate within her, birth new beasts in praise of her. Her nerves shine brighter than stars, shriek across the void, demand more, ever more.

They are in her thrall, this strange, sad girl billowing in the dark, reaching for everything she has lost, closing her hands on emptiness. 

Monsters know their own. She is finally home.


End file.
